Drew went very still, stiller than the two-hundred-year-old stump on which they were balanced. Her eyelids dropped shut. She tried very, very hard to vanish.
Oh, my God, she thought.
What in the name of all that was sensible or reasonable or sane?
What have I done?
She had... she had...regressed.
She was her old self, her vocal, speak-first, make-amends-never self. The Drewsmina from before. From the time when she was desperate for attention and she embarrassed herself on a daily basis.
It was a repeat of her behavior in the antechamber of Kew Palace with the birds, only a million times worse.
Ohthe irony, Drew thought,of marrying a duke, of enjoying his warm regard—his affection, hispassion—and then ruining it by professing a deep, binding emotion on thesecondday.
Of terrifying him, she thought.Frightening him away. Of introducingfeelingshe wouldn’t return.
She was not unlike the orphans at Kew Palace, she thought. They’d seen birds in a cage and been intrigued; but instead of admiring them respectfully, they’d plunged them into frightened chaos.
And now, the duke would break a window and set himself free.
Drew’s eyes filled with tears and she squeezed them away.
Meanwhile, Lachlan’s silence endured. Of course he was silent, he was a reasonable man with reasonable restraint on his mouth and his heart. He would not embarrass her, but he would also make no profession. Not toher, Drewsmina Trelayne. Not after a fortnight of acquaintance.
She opened one eye and glanced at him.
He stared back at her with an open question on his face. His face said,Youdidn’t.
He looked at her like she’d just told a roomful of children that there was no Father Christmas.
Drew’s heart flickered, went dim, and then disappeared inside her chest. Coldness spread to every extremity, except her face. Her face burned.
“Look alive,” Lachlan whispered, “someone’s on the path.”
Her eyes shot to his. He was scanning the horizon. His arms remained around her. He held her still, but not tightly, not possessively. He simply hadn’t moved from before. It was a hollow touch.
She bit her lip and looked over her shoulder, trying to follow his gaze. She saw nothing. Trees, shrubs, the pond. She looked to him again. His face gave no clues except... mild detachment. His eyes did not dismiss her so much as... forget her? Move on from her?
And now her heart did its disappearing act a second time. She shivered.
“Perhaps it was nothing,” he said. “We should go back.”
“Oh,” she said. “Yes, of course.”
“If only for the twins. Buellis can only manage for so long.”
She nodded and uncurled from him, sitting up. She tugged at her bodice. She looked around them. Her words had not only killed the warmth and intimacy, the teasing and playfulness was also gone. His movements were restless and pragmatic.
Would they always come together, explode together, and then... discuss Buellis?
Who am I fooling?she wondered.There is no guarantee that we’ll come together again.
And she’d done it with a word. Well, withthreewords.
Because she’d wanted too much. She’d always wantedtoo much. He’d found pleasure with her, of this she had no doubt, and he’d been considerate of her own pleasure—but to beat back the intimacy so quickly?
It had been the same last night, with his “errand.” He was passionate, and then he was... gone.
